


Reaper

by athena_crikey



Category: Bleach, Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe: Reapers, Drama, Gen, Ghosts, Mentorship, Probably h/c, Secrets, Uncanny inheritances, because everything I write is, case-fic, loosely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-13 17:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: It was Morse. Detective Constable Morse, here at the crime scene at nine o’clock at night wearing a goddamnsword. Morse, who even in the bright splash of sunlight, had no shadow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was done with Endeavour at 50 fics, but apparently I had another one in me.

It was raining, one of the sudden downpours that struck Oxford in the summer when the sky seemed to open and release a sea of water onto the town. 

Peter Jakes, newly promoted to DS and transferred to OCP from County – practically a double promotion – stood by his window with a tumbler of cheap scotch and looked out at the street below. The streetlamp across from his flat cast a gold circle on the cracked pavement, water pooling in the crevices. Cars drove back and forth, water splashing up from under their tyres, their headlamps drawing long white lines in the dark evening. 

Further down the street, far from the lambent illumination of the streetlamp, something moved in the shadows. Jakes turned to watch it; the shape of a young man emerged slowly, drunkenly, dragging a leg. Jakes’ eyes narrowed. The soft electric light seemed to shine right through the narrow figure, casting no shadow onto the wall behind. From his chest hung a few links of a thick metal chain, dangling freely. 

He had been seeing them since the bad years, since he’d been bundled up and sent away to a boy’s home so grim it felt right out of a nineteenth century novel. He hadn’t recognized them at first, the vague shapes that haunted the corners of his vision. But the longer he stayed there the clearer they became: young girls with ripped clothes and bruises on their throats, adults with bloody wrists, old men with shaking heads and vacant stares. 

Ghosts. 

Sometimes they talked to him. He never talked back. But occasionally, he listened. They told stories of violence and pain, of hurt and anger. Of suicide and death. It had been hard, as a child. As a detective, it had made his career.

He watched the street outside his window as the ghost – a car wreck victim, from the looks of it – staggered down the street dragging his useless leg behind him. He stepped into a line of shadow cast by a telephone pole. Darkness flickered, and nothing came out the other side of the black strip. Jakes narrowed his eyes, but still saw nothing. The ghost had vanished. 

Eventually he shrugged, moved away from the window, and turned on the radio. Tomorrow, he started work at Cowley station.

  
***

Cowley station was in an old stone building that looked as though it had originally housed something grander than the rozzers. But inside it was the same cheap office design of every other station he’d been in – linoleum floors, walls with cracked and chipping paint, thin wooden partitions erected to create offices. No temperature control or soundproofing. The duty sergeant directed him upstairs to the CID, which occupied one half of the station’s second storey.

One of the men at a desk near the front of the room pointed him over to an office against the far wall. In front of it, sitting like a lanky guard-dog, was a disheveled young man with ginger hair and a lop-sided frown. His hands were resting on the keys of a typewriter, but his eyes were fixed on Jakes as the sergeant crossed the floor. 

“DS Jakes,” said Jakes. “I’m looking for DI Thursday.”

“DC Morse; his bagman,” replied Morse; Jakes felt his surprise stamp itself across his face and saw Morse’s face darken in response. Bagman was a sergeant’s job – a job he had assumed would be his. But perhaps Morse was just filling in. 

“He’s through there,” said Morse, tilting his head towards the door behind him. 

Jakes knocked on the door; through the window he saw the man on the other side give a curt wave, and entered. 

The office was narrow and long, featuring a desk and interview chairs, as well as a coffee table and sofa set off to the side overlooked by a charcoal-stained fireplace. The room smelled of smoke and aftershave, a pervasive scent. Jakes stepped inside, shoes clicking on the red lino floor. 

DI Thursday was middle-aged and heavy-set. His dark hair, greying at the temples, was swept back and his dark eyes were hard and unreadable. His jawline was running to jowls, the skin of his face sagging with age and a life lived in an unforgiving profession. His fists, resting on the desk, were sizeable. Altogether, a man not to cross. Jakes straightened towards attention. “DS Jakes, sir.”

“Fred Thursday. You’ve just come from County, have you?”

“That’s right.”

“Found everything alright?”

“No trouble, sir.”

“Good.” Thursday leaned back, chair creaking. Through the single-paned window behind him Jakes could see the car park and the brick building beyond, its chimney pots biting into the sky like tiny urban turrets. “We’re a small team here; I’m acting DCS at the moment, but there’ll be a new man along to fill those boots before long. You’ll have to work alongside DC Morse for the next few days while you settle in; I’ll check in with you as needed but self-sufficiency would be appreciated.”

Jakes nodded.

“We’ve just wrapped up a major investigation, and short of a few court cases which DI McNutt’s crew are handling, there’s not much on the docket. I heard from Morse that a suspicious fire came in overnight; you can go out with him and look into it. I’ve some further files for you here that you can take on as well,” he said, tapping a small stack of manila folders on his desk. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Why don’t you have a shufti through them; you and Morse can run out to the arson in the afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jakes again. Thursday nodded, and Jakes, sensing his dismissal, took the folders and left. His status as bagman wasn’t a question to raise at his first meeting with his new boss.

  
***

Jakes read through the files, noting the abbreviations and the typewriter-driven typos typical to all police documents. It was comforting to find familiarity even in this new nick with its unknown officers.

Morse was in and out of Thursday’s office several times that morning, clearly running errands and bringing in new information. It was a bagman’s job to act as his superior’s ears, eyes and nose in the nick, and also to enforce his direction be it spoken or unspoken; for a position that carried such weight Morse seemed a weedy pick. It wasn’t just that he was physically slight – he was no lighter than Jakes, although his ill-fitting clothes gave him an underfed look – but he gave the impression of paying attention to some inner world rather than the present surrounding him, as if he had withdrawn from the stresses and inconveniences of police work. His eyes, wide and sky-blue, rarely seemed focused on what was in front of him. 

But then, Jakes was bound to take a dislike to the man filling his seat. 

He ate in the canteen, rubbing shoulders with some of the other CID men who reported to DI McNutt and grumbled casually about Morse – chippy, aloof, an outsider. The food was tepid and fatty, the tea hot and sweet and midnight dark. The ceiling was stained with grease and nicotine, a monument to decades of police lunches. To Jakes, it felt like home. 

Morse didn’t show himself in the canteen; working through lunch said the other coppers with sarcastic smiles. _Brown-nosing_ , read Jakes between the lines. 

By the time 1pm rolled around, he wasn’t looking forward to the trip to the suspected arson site with the DC. He picked up Morse at his desk and the two of them went downstairs to the motor pool.

Outside the warm July weather was sunny and fine, Oxford’s towering chestnut trees thick with rich green leaves, the window boxes mounted on houses bursting with bright colour. Inside the black Jag the mood was considerably darker. Morse was clearly not a talkative man and Jakes didn’t feel like making the effort. He could have commented on the DC’s smooth handling of the Jag’s cranky gearbox, or the fact that he clearly knew the Cowley streets like the back of his hand. He chose not to.

They crossed through Cowley’s tiny market heart into its industrial back yard. Passed by redbrick factories and dirty laundromats and shoebox churches into a district made up of tenement houses. Beyond that, in what seemed a residential wasteland where tyres and broken furniture had been abandoned on the pavement, were small Victorian houses of the type typically divided and rented out in bedsits. Morse came to park in front of one with a scraggly front garden and a wide bay window that looked out onto the street. Windows upstairs were broken, the front porch was uneven and coated by a badly chipping layer of varnish. The front door showed signs of distress. 

A squatters’ den, Jakes diagnosed before he even opened the car door. “Rough neighbourhood,” he commented dryly. 

“The production lines don’t pay well,” replied Morse, and swung the door open. Jakes stepped out as well, crossing the street and climbing up the crooked steps. 

“If it’s abandoned, it’ll be squatters lighting it up. Drunk or high, no way to tell.”

The front door was locked but Morse produced a key and opened it; it was hardly necessary – most of the windows on the first floor look like they had been jimmied multiple times. 

Inside was a smell of piss and sour beer and burnt paper. The carpeting had been ripped out in places to reveal older, narrow floorboards; the dark wallpaper had been rent and torn and scrawled across illegibly. Flattened cardboard boxes were scattered around, suggesting rough sleepers. 

The downstairs was a square shape with the shadowy staircase in the centre; at the back of the house was the kitchen, lav and dining room while at the front was a sitting room and a space that might at one point have served as a study. It was the sitting room – now just an empty space littered with cardboard boxes and mouse feces – that bore the remains of the fire. A black charcoal stain licked up the wall to peel some of the ceiling away and reveal the dark interstitial space beyond. The floor was burned in a rough circle, and shreds of burnt carpet and wallpaper had floated throughout the rest of the room. 

“The firemen think there was a pile of paper and cardboard there – old magazines and newspapers and the like. That’s what caught fire. A neighbour saw the flames in the window and called 999. Fortunately the fire was relatively contained and they were able to catch it early.” 

“That’s all in the file,” replied Jakes, leaning forward to run a finger through the ash on the wall; it was thick and oily and his fingertip came away black. 

“This wasn’t: this is the third fire at this address in the past 30 years. One of the firemen remembered another five years ago. I looked up that file and found that this was in fact the third. The first fire gutted the front of the house and they had to rebuild.”

“All that trouble to end up a squatters den.” Jakes snorted. “But there’s nothing suspicious in a place like this catching fire. Like I said, probably someone had a skinful and dropped a fag,” he said, just as movement beyond Morse’s shoulder caught his eye. He turned to look, and froze.

Someone was descending the staircase. A teenaged girl dressed in a night frock, her legs bare and her eyes wide. Her pale skin was blackened by streaks of ash, her feet were burnt stubs. A short chain hung out of her chest like the string of a talking dolly. 

Jakes looked hurriedly away from the ghost of the dead girl even as Morse glanced over his shoulder. “Nothing more to see here,” he said gruffly, pushing past Morse towards the door.

“We haven’t even looked around,” protested Morse, but after another glance backwards he followed Jakes out, locking the door behind him and pocketing the key.

Jakes couldn’t very well talk to the ghost with Morse here. That would need a solo visit.

  
***

That evening Jakes filched the key to the house from the evidence lock-up on his way out of the nick. Thursday gave him a nod through the window as he passed the DI’s office; Morse didn’t look up from his typewriting.

Jakes went home first – it would be better to pay a visit later in the evening, when the street was quiet and his appearance would go unnoted. He ate a dinner of tinned tongue and peas, and listened to part of a football match on the radio while he downed a pint. 

The match was effectively over not long after halftime, Arsenal letting in three goals to zero, so he changed out of his suit into a pullover and canvas trousers and left the flat. He caught a bus to Cowley, and from there walked it. Conclusively solving a possible arson in his first week would be a feather in his cap.

Jakes arrived at the abandoned house and let himself in, treading once around the downstairs and returning to the burned-out corner. With no lights on inside in the setting sun he was in shadows, unable to distinguish charcoal and ash from the inky darkness. He crossed his arms and waited. 

It took about fifteen minutes before the ghost descended the stairs, roaming in a random manner. Her fingers traced the dusty banner, the burnt stumps of her feet hovered just above the steps. From her chest hung a few short links of chain; no shadow accompanied her movements. 

Then she saw Jakes and stopped, eyes widening. 

He had never been harmed by a ghost. As terrifying as some of the apparitions were, full of anger and violence, they had never once been able to hurt him. They didn’t belong in this world anymore, he thought – they were no longer of it. They were simply trapped here, unable to pass on to wherever they ought to be. 

The ghost on the stairs clutched at the bannister, trembling. This must have been her house, 30 years ago. And now it was used by rough sleepers and junkies. Being trapped in here with them must have been terrifying for her. 

Jakes began to reach out and saw her attention turn from him to the front door. He paused, and then pulled back when he saw a dark figure come in through the open door. As the figure stepped into a long beam of light flowing in through the study window, Jakes stared. 

The new-comer was a thin man in a sharply-cut black frock coat, the white shirt beneath clean and crisp. He would have looked like a guest in a wedding party except that his trousers were also pitch black, and for the fact that from his hip was hanging a sheathed sword. 

It was Morse. Detective Constable Morse, here at the crime scene at nine o’clock at night wearing a goddamn _sword_. Morse, who even in the bright splash of sunlight, had no shadow.

“It’s alright,” Morse said to the ghost. “I’m here to help you.”

Jakes fell silently back into his corner, wishing himself unseen. Whatever was happening here he wanted no part of it. This was madness, insanity – talking to ghosts was one thing, coming as if ready to _cut them down_ was another entirely. 

“Who are you?” her voice was rough, the sounds of her breathing laboured. Most likely she died of smoke inhalation before the fire reached her. _Hopefully_ so. 

“My name is Morse. I’m here to open the door for you.”

Her brows darkened. “What door?”

“To the world beyond. The place you should be.”

“I should be _here_. This is home!” Her grip on the railing tightened. 

“All alone? For all these years?”

“If I don’t protect it those men will destroy it. They come here and tear it up and drink and light fires. _Fires!_ ” she said, shivering. 

“It’s not your home anymore,” replied Morse, gently, stepping forward. “You don’t have to protect it. You deserve to be happy.” He placed his hand on the sword’s grip, slowly drawing it. Jakes knew almost nothing about medieval weaponry; all he was able to tell was that the blade was long and thin and looked razor-sharp. The grip was black, headed by a rounded bronze pommel. “Let me help you.”

She released the railing, her arms pulling around herself. Morse raised the sword not with the blade extended towards her, but with the pommel facing her. Gently, he pressed the rounded bronze plate to her forehead leaving behind a stamp – it looked like a single flame. 

All at once, like the instant a falling stone strikes water, she rippled apart into streaks of light. And then she was just gone, and the house was empty. Morse sheathed his sword and turned around, walking out the front door. 

He never once saw Jakes standing in his corner. 

It wasn’t until Morse was gone that Jakes relaxed, letting out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. _What the hell_ , he thought, _was that?_


	2. Chapter 2

Jakes came into the station the next morning to find Morse already installed in his place as Thursday’s door warden, wearing the same ill-fitting navy suit as yesterday. There was no sword at his side; his shadow was pooling on the desk beneath him. As though he’d never been near the crime scene last night, never sent that ghost to God only knew where. Never stepped rudely into the part of Jakes’ life that he considered secret and trampled about in it as though he owned it. 

“Morning,” said Morse, looking up from an open folder on his desk. The arson file, Jakes saw. “I was going to close this file – if you agree,” he added. “We could send a patrol round for the next few nights and see if we can catch anyone in the house, but even if we did we couldn’t prove they started the fire. And as you said, it was likely an accident.”

Jakes couldn’t help but wonder if Morse’s sudden about-face on closing the file was due to the words of the ghost last night about the men who came and started fires. But either way, Morse was right; they would never be able to pin a charge on any individual. And dealing with a brood of rough sleepers would be a nightmare. “Close the file,” ordered Jakes, waving his hand. “We’ve done enough.”

Morse nodded, picking up a pen and making a note. Jakes brushed past him and took a seat at his own desk, ready to face the day. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the DC lower his head to re-focus on his file. To all appearances, a perfectly normal officer. 

Jakes wanted answers. But he would have to be strategic about seeking them out.

  
***

County was flooded with blue-collar criminals, men and women who lived a hard scrabble and occasionally tried to take more than they had earned, be it through theft or violence. Jakes had expected Oxford to be home to a more high-class kind of criminal, a more refined kind of crime. But as it turned out, things were much the same here. Theft with violence, domestics, pimps, drunk and disorderlies. Much of it didn’t come to the CID of course; they skimmed the more serious crimes off the top, those requiring investigation from trained detectives.

As it was, though, his docket at OCP looked much like it did at County. It was a little disappointing: high-profile criminals meant high-profile crimes, which meant recognition and promotion. He was called in briefly on a missing boy, but the child was found almost immediately with an aunt from out of town. 

The day grated past, his plate full of paperwork passed down from Thursday for completion and up from Morse for approval. Police work was often nothing but a slow grind; today was one of those days. 

He finished up at 5, Morse still toiling away at his typewriter. 

A couple of the other blokes had asked him out to the pub; he had understood without an explicit conversation that Morse wasn’t invited. That suited him fine.

  
***

“Keeps himself to himself. Hoity-toity, and not behind in showing it. DS Lott – your predecessor – said he was a college boy. Fancies himself superior to the likes of you and I because he had a bit of education,” said DS Sunder, taking a deep gulp at his pint of bitter. The DS was a middle-aged man with a corpulent face that grew redder as he drank; he had an alcoholic’s ruddy nose and unsteady hands. His summary of Morse stank of prejudice, but Jakes didn’t mind that. He already had the sense that Morse had a unique ability to engender strong reactions. Like a naked bulb, he cast everything around him into either light or shadow – there was no in between.

“Is he bright?” asked Jakes, taking a sip of his lager.

“It’s all book learning,” pitched in DC Mulroney dismissively, leaning forward on Jakes’ left. “He’s no idea of police work. He’s only been in the Force two years, and spent them out at Carshall – God knows what he picked up there, but it wasn’t anything useful. But then maybe it wasn’t their fault; he’s always got his head in the clouds.”

“But he’s DI Thursday’s bagman,” said Jakes slowly, like a man trailing a lure. Sunder snapped it up immediately.

“The old man’s taken a shine to him. He was saddled with that bastard Lott so long, you can’t blame him. Any bright young lad to come along must have seemed a better bet. And Morse does have a strange way of stumbling into solutions. Devil’s luck.”

Or perhaps, thought Jakes, an inside line to those who know. It was how he had made his own name, after all. Solving murders was simple when the victim was there to show you where to look. Although Morse hadn’t seemed to have solving the arson case in mind when he showed up swinging his sword, dressed like a Victorian relic. 

“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He doesn’t rub along – doesn’t want to rub along. You can’t trust coppers who don’t trust each other,” said Mulroney. 

Jakes nodded, finishing off his pint. “Another?” he asked; the answer was a resounding yes, and as the new man he rose to fetch it.

  
***

It being a weeknight Jakes drew the limit at four pints and, after a pie and chips, headed home leaving Sunder still at the table drinking away his evening. Mulroney walked him out, the two of them parting ways at the bus stop. “Glad to have you with us, Sarge,” said Mulroney, waving as Jakes trod down the street towards his flat.

 _Sarge_. Jakes had never been sure what he wanted in life other than _something else_. In the bad years at Blenheim Vale all he had hoped for was a way out of that hell; after that had come schooling and the Police Collee, both of which had been nothing more than a stepping stone. As, in their way, had his positions as police constable and then detective constable. Now that he was a sergeant, he wondered if he ought to feel a made man. 

He didn’t. 

And really, he thought as he walked down the pavement with the sun setting in the west painting the sky above Cowley’s terraced houses in deep hues of orange and red, that was the fault of the apparitions that had ironically also landed him his promotion. What was the point of slaving away in this life if the reward in the next was simply more of the same?

Morse had answers. More than that, he somehow had a power Jakes had never dreamed of – the ability not only to see ghosts but to send them wherever it was they belonged. Heaven? He wasn’t sure he believed in it. Hell seemed a good deal more likely. 

Sunder and Mulroney hadn’t had much of use to say about Morse – certainly nothing hinting at suspicions that he was as strange as Jakes believed him to be. An unsociable loner, certainly. But not, as they would doubtless have perceived, a looney. 

Jakes wasn’t sure yet how to get the answers he needed; Morse certainly wouldn’t surrender them in a casual conversation. But he wasn’t one to give up in the face of a challenge – he had dragged himself up by the fingernails to make it this far. He would find a way.

  
***

Jakes came in the next day with a slight headache, the weather hot and muggy and threatening thunder. His temples ached with his heartbeat as he climbed the stairs in Cowley station; he pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly.

“Doing alright Sarge?” asked Mulroney, passing him on the staircase. Jakes dropped his hand and smiled.

“Right as rain.”

Inside the CID Morse was sitting at his desk as though he had been there all night, although today his suit was grey rather than yesterday’s navy. His suit jacket was hung on the hat stand behind him, his sea-blue tie bright against his unironed shirt. He looked up as Jakes came over. 

“We’ve a suspicious death come in,” he said, closing the file he was reading and handing it to Jakes. He had never once addressed Jakes as sergeant, Jakes realised. “Inspector Thursday wants to take a look.”

Jakes opened the file. It was too early for photographs, but he read the curt description from the attending officer: Woman in her late 60s found dead in her home, sign of a struggle, bruises on her skin. “Break in?” he asked, looking up.

“Apparently there was no sign of tampering with the doors or windows.”

“Someone with a key then.”

“She has no relatives in town; her husband died three months ago.”

Jakes sighed, head throbbing. “Alright. We’ll go take a look.” He dropped the file on his desk and turned, waiting for Morse to follow. The DC was still sitting, looking thoughtful. “Well come on then – get a move on,” snapped Jakes. Morse startled and stood, picking up his suit jacket. Then he leant back and rapped on the glass of Thursday’s window to summon the DI.

  
***

Jakes sat in the back on the drive over like a piece of forgotten luggage. Thursday received his information from Morse, and while Jakes threw in a point or two, it was to his bagman that he turned with questions.

To be fair, Morse had the file memorized. The deceased was Ann Bouchard, a retired school-teacher whose husband – a retired don – had passed away three months ago leaving her alone in their large north Oxford home. A friend had called the police after being unable to raise Mrs Bouchard on the phone or at the house. A PC had spotted the disturbed scene through the front window and broken the door down to find the body in the back study. 

Arriving at the scene of crime, they were treated to the same first impression that the PC had received. The front room looked like a tornado had blown through it; two end tables were over-turned and the sofa’s chintz cover had been shredded apparently by a knife. Porcelain and glass trinkets had been knocked off the mantelpiece and lay smashed on the oak floorboards below. The room was busy with forensic officers taking photographs and fingerprints.

“What was the cause of death?” asked Jakes as they passed through to the study, following the trail of destruction.

“I would say that was up to me to determine.” A short man in hornrims and a bow tie straightened from his position over the corpse; he was wearing gloves and carried a small notebook. At his foot stood a black box. He had a prim look to him, a tidy dresser accustomed to paying attention to details. Pathologist, assessed Jakes. 

The body itself was lying flat on the floor, face up. Ann Bouchard had been an attractive woman, her face only lightly wrinkled and her hair bleached blonde to hide the grey. She was wearing a floral dress with a full skirt and a light cardigan; slightly dowdy but still fashionable. Someone had peeled back the cardigan from her upper arms to show a pair of matching bruises that spanned her entire upper arms from shoulder to elbow. There was another similarly large bruise on her lower left leg. Her shoes had been kicked across the room and lay abandoned beside an empty desk. 

Her face was a mask of terror. Jakes stared, having seldom seen such fear in a body. On the living, it was far more familiar to him. 

“This is DS Jakes, our new man,” introduced Thursday. “Dr DeBryn, the Home Office pathologist.”

“Pleasure,” said DeBryn, cursorily, turning back to the corpse.

Jakes tore his stare away from the corpse and took a moment to assess the room: it was a large airy study with two immense windows in the two corner walls looking out onto a green garden. But while it was comfortably furnished with a cherrywood desk, expensive leather armchair and two tall matching bookshelves, the room was empty. No books on the shelves, no papers or pens or even a blotter on the desk. Everything was sparkling clean, the Oriental rug recently hovered. It was just completely empty – save for its mistress’ body. 

Jakes turned his attention to Morse and Thursday. Thursday was watching the pathologist; Morse appeared to be actively avoiding examining the corpse, his eyes darting around the room, his body half-turned from the deceased. His face, even in the soft indirect light filtering in through the windows, was starkly pale. Weak-stomached, thought Jakes with a snort. 

“Anything for us, doctor?” asked Thursday.

“Temperature and lividity suggest a death roughly two days ago. You can see the bruises on her arms and leg for yourselves; they’re of interest. Roughly twice the size of a man’s hand, and wrapped all the way around the limbs as a handprint would be. I haven’t encountered such markings before; they don’t tally with a wound left by a blow or impact. Perhaps some kind of binding with a thick scarf or similar object could have produced them.”

“And cause of death?” pressed the DI.

“For now, inconclusive. Possibly heart failure brought on by extreme stress. I’ll get you further details once I’ve had a closer look.”

“What did her husband die of?” asked Morse, suddenly. Jakes shot him an unimpressed look, which he ignored. “Was it your case?”

“As a matter of fact, it was. Ronald Bouchard, aged 75 or 76 I believe. He died in this house – ischemic stroke. Just collapsed dead at the breakfast table. They had been married some forty years; I met her briefly. She was distraught by his death.”

“And now she’s dead,” said Morse, slowly.

“Surely you’re not suggesting there’s a connection,” replied Jakes. Morse glanced at him, one hand raised to brush a stray lock of ginger hair behind his freckled ear. 

“No,” he said slowly, glancing at Thursday and then back at Jakes. “It just may be of interest.”

Jakes gave him a sardonic look. “Hard to see how.”

“Anything else we should know?” broke in Thursday, addressing the pathologist. 

“Not as yet. I’ll have a look at the medicine cabinet and contact her GP in case there was an underlying condition. Otherwise, it will need the autopsy to shed more light.”

Thursday nodded. Morse was padding around the room, poking into drawers and examining the cream-coloured walls which showed signs of having had photos or paintings removed recently. 

“I’ll have a quick gander upstairs,” said Jakes, striding out of the study. If there was a ghost to speak to, she wasn’t here.

Not all bodies were accompanied by their spirit. When he was younger, Jakes had wondered if they just blew away on the wind like dandelion fluff, not anchored tightly enough to their corpse. Later, he wondered if not all people had personalities strong enough to last beyond the trauma of death.

Since seeing Morse at the arson site, he had begun to wonder if someone – or some _thing_ – was sending them somewhere. 

He had a quick look through the house in case Mrs Bouchard was still lingering somewhere in her home, a ready-made witness. He didn’t find her, which wasn’t in itself conclusive. Ghosts weren’t perpetually present; sometimes they drifted off somewhere or simply switched off like a lightbulb only to return later. He made a note to come back and have another look around later on.

There wasn’t any trace of disturbance upstairs. Whatever had happened here was confined to the downstairs rooms. He did find an undisturbed jewellery box and a wad of bills in her knickers drawer. This was no theft gone wrong, unless the thief panicked after having killed. 

Taking the cash to be logged as evidence, he sauntered back downstairs. Morse and Thursday were caucusing in the front hall; they looked up as he descended the stairs. “Found a fistful of quid and her jewellery upstairs. Doesn’t look like theft, unless he scarpered after having killed her,” said Jakes, holding up the bill fold. 

Thursday nodded. “I’ve asked Morse to check with the neighbours about any suspicious activity in the past couple of days. Why don’t you get onto her friends and see what you can dig up.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Then keep me informed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had forgotten how much I enjoy this fandom - you're all amazing people!


	3. Chapter 3

After Thursday’s departure Jakes had another quick rummage around the house, this time searching for a diary or address book. He found the latter in the drawer of an ornate table on which the phone rested. Between the book and the original friend who had prompted the discovery of the body, he had enough to be going on with.

Leaving Morse with the car, he caught a ride back to the station with the photographer, chatting about the latest lads’ mags. They arrived at the nick just as a black cloud was forming overhead Cowley, the humidity stifling and the atmosphere electric. 

From his desk he began the complicated business of listing off potential interviewees and then ringing them up to arrange a timetable for visits. Fortunately many of Mrs Bouchard’s friends – like the deceased herself – turned out to be retired and with time to spare for him. Breaking the bad news so many times in such a short period exhausted him though and, three cigarettes later, he headed downstairs to secure a cuppa. 

He found Thursday in the canteen, also fetching himself tea and a biscuit. Cynically, Jakes considered that it was only in his bagman’s absence that a DI was forced to secure his own elevenses. Spotting Jakes, Thursday took a seat at the end of a table and motioned him over. Jakes finished adding a dash of aging milk to his tea and joined him. 

“I’ve set up a full roster of visits to friends,” reported Jakes, setting down his cup and saucer on the scarred table. It was a product of bland institutionalism, long and heavy and originally painted with a thick dark veneer but now much scuffed and scratched. The chairs were an eclectic mix of older wooden articles and newer plastic and metal ones, the crooked legs scraping on the ancient linoleum below. “No relatives to speak of – no kids or siblings.”

“Any on the husband’s side?”

“Not that her friends knew about.”

“Dedicated to each other,” speculated Thursday morosely. 

“It agrees with what the pathologist said, sir. But I’ll find out more from the interviews.”

Thursday took a long drink from his cup; Jakes did the same. There were questions he wanted to ask: about Morse, about his potential for taking over the position as bagman. But this wasn’t the time – not in the staff canteen. He made a note to bring it up with the DI before he left for the night. 

“Settling in alright, are you Sergeant?” Thursday’s mind was clearly elsewhere, his capacity for small talk diminished. His eyes were focused in the distance instead of on Jakes. 

“I think so, sir,” replied Jakes. _Except for Morse_ , ran his inner monologue. He quashed it and took another sip of tea.

  
***

“He for God only, she for God in him,” said one of his interviews in the interminable afternoon of middle-aged, weepy women. “Or rather, He for Academia, she for it in him. Ronald had no love other than learning; Ann supported him in every way. Children would have disrupted his perfectly ordered world, so there were none. Ann was bright – very bright. But a proper job was out of the question – that would mean no dinner on the table when he wanted it, or clean shirts when he needed them. She settled for part-time school mistress. She said she was happy – a happiness derived from Ronald’s success. And certainly he was successful; he was a Fellow not long after they married, and rose from there. He just missed being appointed Master twice over.”

By this time the storm had broken, thunder booming furiously overhead and rain lashing at the windows. Occasional forks of lightning shot through the air, painting the world in simple tones of black and white for an instant. 

Not much of the interviewee’s statement made any impact on Jakes except for him to mentally stamp Bouchard with the label of posh-o, which he applied to Dons across the board. He made a polite reply and went on with his questions, none of which got him much further forward. 

Ann Bouchard had been universally liked by her close acquaintances, some of whom had considered her lacking in ambition and others of whom had seen her as living a fulfilled life. Except for the unexpected death of her husband three months ago there was no blot on her existence, no sign of a dark underbelly. No suggestion of drink or drugs, of a ne’er do well acquaintance or a scam artist casing the house. 

No explanation for her untimely death. 

It could be random bad luck, of course. Some housebreaker who had come across her in a panic and killed her – but what of the marks on her arms and legs? And killed her how? The scenario produced more questions than answers. The autopsy might answer some, but in Jakes’ experience pathologists tended to prevaricate more often than speak plainly. 

If, on the other hand, he returned to the house later on and managed to communicate with Mrs Bouchard, that might get the whole job done and dusted. 

Jakes finished up his interviews and returned to the nick, the streets sodden but the air no longer so stuffy.

  
***

Morse was absent from the nick when Jakes returned, and in a malicious moment he hoped the DC had been caught out in the storm. By this time it was late in the day, some of the CID officers already gone home. Thursday was in his office, the door ajar.

Jakes wrote up some notes for the file and looked through the initial forensics reports – so far just logs of the work that had been done. He also looked through a couple of smaller files that had landed on his desk for review while he had been out that afternoon.

That done he stood, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair down. Then he stepped over and knocked on Thursday’s door.

The DI glanced up, pen stilling against the piece of paper he was taking notes on. “Sergeant?”

Jakes stepped in, closing the door behind him. Thursday put down the pen, straightening. 

“It’s about my duties, sir,” he said, standing before the large desk. “It was my understanding that as senior officer reporting to you, I would be acting as your bagman. I wanted to ask what I can expect as far as that’s concerned.”

Thursday nodded. “It’s a fair question, and one I ought to’ve talked to you about before. Morse was brought over to the OCP from Carshall on assignment as part of a high-profile missing persons case that turned out to be murder.”

“The Mary Tremlett case,” interrupted Jakes. “I’ve read about it in the papers.”

“Morse solved it when the rest of us were still miles behind. He has a different way of looking at things. A perspective like that is valuable – as is the personal relationship between DI and bagman, and Morse suits me. I offered him the job and he accepted it. I know it’s not the norm, but it’s perfectly within the regulations.”

It was nothing Jakes wasn’t anticipating, but it was a blow all the same. “It’s not what I was led to believe, sir,” he said, stonily. 

Thursday raised his eyebrows, unphased. “No one made an offer of bagman, sergeant. I can see why you would have assumed it, and I ought to have made the situation clearer to the recruiter. However, the arrangement stands. You’re still superior officer – Morse reports directly to me, but I expect him to follow any orders you may have for him and to run his work through you as appropriate. Any discrepancies will come to me to sort out.” Thursday was watching Jakes hard, and he easily read between the lines: _Don’t take advantage of the offer._

“Yes, sir.” He said, flatly. He telegraphed his dissatisfaction clearly, and saw Thursday take it in. But he clearly wasn’t budging, and Jakes wasn’t in a situation to negotiate. 

“Glad we had this chat, Sergeant. As always, my door’s open if you need me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

His hopes gone up in flames, Jakes turned and left. He packed up his things and went home.

  
***

For a few hours, he forgot all about Mrs Bouchard’s murder. Sitting at home, seething, he focused solely on cronyism and its insidiousness. The idea that Morse – a grass-green DC – deserved his place was ludicrous. As Sunder had said, Thursday had clearly taken a shine to the red-head, and was ignoring protocol to favour him. It could benefit a DI hugely to have a bagman who would go to the wall for him – perhaps Morse had somehow proved his loyalty.

The longer he sat, though, the more he reflected that if closing a high-profile case was what had earned Morse the bagman’s slot, then he could reply in kind. A violent death in a rich neighbourhood of Oxford, and the victim a prominent man’s wife, could bring the kind of spotlight he had hoped for from the OCP. 

By eight o’clock he was convinced of the need to return to the scene of crime to take another look around. He pulled on his suit jacket again, tie abandoned on the back of his chair, and went downstairs to catch the bus back to the station.

At Cowley station he fetched one of the sets of house keys and signed out a Jag, neither action raising any eyebrows among the dregs of the night watch. Outside it was a pleasant July evening, birds singing in the trees and the sky clearing overhead. He drove slowly through town, heading north and over Folly bridge into Oxford, up past the majority of the colleges with their ancient spires and gates, and into north Oxford.

Mrs Bouchard’s street was long and narrow; the row houses were set back from the road and protected by tall brick walls. It was quiet, few cars parked beside the pavement, the puddles reflecting the blue sky above. Jakes parked the Jag and got out, pocketing the car keys and pulling out Mrs Bouchard’s house keys. There was a string and tag on them identifying them, making it easier to fish them out of his pocket. 

The house stood dark against the sky. It was one half of a yellow brick terraced house, three stories tall with a fenced in garden. Jakes ran up the front steps and opened the door, slipping into the dark house and turning the lights on. 

The interior was as he had left it that afternoon, although marginally dirtier with grey powder dusted over most surfaces left behind by forensics. He closed the door behind him and began to slowly wander through the house. 

Mrs Bouchard’s body had, of course, been removed to the mortuary; there was no longer any trace of death in the otherwise spotless study. Jakes lingered there for several minutes, then continued drifting: kitchen, front room, den, and then upstairs. 

Upstairs was the master bedroom and two guests, as well as a modern bathroom done in blues and greys which reminded him of the sea as seen in the pictures – calm and inviting. The bedrooms were large and roomy, provided with fresh linen and cheerful knickknacks. Jakes moved slowly through them, feeling as though he was wearing another person’s clothes. Going through the homes of the dead, trying to peel away the universalities to find the raw bones beneath which were unique to them and spoke of their personalities, always felt like a trespass. 

Especially when the houses of the dead were still home to them.

Jakes finished in the bedrooms and climbed higher still to the third storey. Here the rooms were small with slanted ceilings, and comprised a tiny storage room, a sewing room, and a miniature library. Jakes was just flicking on the light to read some of the book covers when he heard something move downstairs. 

He froze, forefinger on the spine of Paradise Lost. Then he ghosted out of the room and down the stairs, heart pounding in his chest and hands fisted. On the second story he heard a creak in the master bedroom. He stood behind the doorway, steeling himself, and then strode forcefully into the room.

Morse was there, looking through the books on the bedside table. At Jakes’ entrance he startled, tripping backwards and half-falling onto the bed. He was dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing earlier in the day, his ginger hair a mess and his shirt collar limp and creased. 

“What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” demanded Jakes hotly, staring down the DC. 

Morse pushed himself up onto his feet, colour rising. “I thought I’d take another look through the house. Clearly we had the same idea.”

“Don’t get clever,” snapped Jakes; Morse coloured further, neck and ears a blotchy fuchsia. 

The difficulty, of course, was that he couldn’t very well accuse Morse of ghost-hunting. And there was, technically, nothing wrong with an overzealous officer pulling extra hours so long as he followed procedure. 

“Hoping to put in extra hours and solve the case all on your lonesome?” continued Jakes, sneering. “Bring your solution like a nice little present to DI Thursday?” Perhaps that was why Thursday preferred him – he had found an underling willing to do the spadework in his own time.

“It’s my own time,” replied Morse, glaring.

“Well you can come back tomorrow if you’re so keen,” continued Jakes. “Unless you’ve found something, we should both be going.”

No point staying longer – even if Mrs Bouchard _was_ here he couldn’t very well get anything out of her with Morse hovering around. And he wasn’t about to leave the DC here to bag her should she show up.

“I’ve just arrived,” protested Morse. 

“That’s too bad for you.” Jakes gestured at the door and led the way. 

Outside in the hallway he saw something move out of the corner of his eye and turned. Standing at the far end of the hall from the stairs was a hulking shape. 

Enormous. White. Masked. Jakes took in those thoughts before his brain painted in a fuller picture: a lumbering beast bigger than a bear, with white skin and a _hole_ in its chest as though a large-bore drill had passed straight through its flesh. Its hands were immense and ended in claws; its teeth inside the white mask it wore were large and square. It saw Jakes and looked up slowly.

“ _What_ ,” he began. Morse arrived behind him and looked out past his shoulder.

The next instant, everything happened at once. 

“ _Run!_ ” snapped Morse, pushing him in the back, hard. 

“FRESH MEAT,” rumbled the creature thunderously, leaping forward. 

And Jakes, reacting to both Morse and the thing, stumbled forward and headed for the stairs. “ _Faster_ ,” urged Morse, behind him; he could hear the thumping of the creature pounding down the hallway in chase. 

Jakes hit the stairs running and half-ran, half-fell down them. At the bottom he caught himself against a halfmoon table, wrists twisting hard beneath his flying weight. The thing snarled and Morse cried out and came tumbling down after him, landing in a heap on the floor with blood dripping from three scratches on his left shoulder that had rent the fabric of his jacket and shirt. 

He was up in a flash, shoving Jakes at the door; Jakes yanked it open and ran out into the front garden, fumbling frantically for the car keys in his pocket and cursing to himself. He found them even as he reached the pavement and shoved them into the keyhole, unlocking the passenger door and sliding in. He was gasping for breath, hands shaking with adrenaline. Morse slid in beside him and slammed the door shut: “Drive.”

Jakes turned over the engine and hit the throttle with a heavy foot, and a moment later they were moving. He looked in the mirror and, just for an instant, saw a flash of white skin in the house’s doorway before the creature stepped back into the shadows. 

“What in _Christ’s name_ was that?” demanded Jakes. His hands were fisted tight on the wheel to keep from trembling, skin nearly as white as that of the monstrous thing. 

“You could see it?” asked Morse, wincing as he pressed his palm to his shoulder.

“Of course I could bloody well see it,” replied Jakes, in the heat of the moment. He regretted the admission a moment later, by which time it was too late. 

“That,” said Morse, looking at him in interest. “was a Hollow.”

“And what did it want?”

“Most likely? To devour you.”


	4. Chapter 4

“To _eat_ me,” echoed Jakes, incredulously. 

The Jag was still tearing through North Oxford’s back streets at dangerous speeds; he eased back his foot on the throttle, heart beginning to slow. After a moment he pulled over on the edge of a small park, the immediate need to get well shot of the house diminishing. 

“Yes. Just like it killed and consumed Mrs Bouchard. Hollows are what the dead become when they’ve lingered for too long in too much pain. Their masks develop to protect them from their former emotions, and they become killing monsters with a taste for souls – and those who can see them. People like you,” finished Morse. He looked at his blood-streaked hand and winced. His shirt and jacket were both ruined, ripped through and blood-stained. At the moment, Jakes felt no sympathy. He was still jittery with adrenaline, chest aching and throat aching from his recent sprint. His fear soaked him like petrol, and rage lit him aflame. 

“You know nothing about me,” he snapped, tone full of vitriol. 

“I know you can see spirits – if you saw the Hollow, you must be able to. Only people with significant spiritual awareness can. And that makes you dangerously appealing to things that prey on the spiritually strong.”

“What does that make you?” and then, after a momentary pause, “I saw you the other night. At the arson site. Got up like a Victorian gent with a bloody ridiculous sword.” Morse stared, his wide blue eyes projecting an innocence that further enraged Jakes. “Or are you going to pretend that wasn’t you?”

“It was me,” replied Morse, slowly. And then, after a pause, “I suppose you could say it’s my night job.”

“Criminals by day, ghosts by night? Is that it? But for DC Morse the residents of Oxford would be haunted by crime and spectres?” sneered Jakes sarcastically. 

Morse’s jaw snapped shut for a moment, his eyes sparking. Then: “I don’t do it for accolades, or for your approval,” he said fiercely. “I do it because if I don’t, people suffer – both the living and the dead.”

“Suffer how?”

“Souls become Hollows. Hollows devour souls, and the people who can see them. Although you’re the first living person I’ve actually met who can see them, apart from DI Thursday.”

This further information hit Jakes like a wave striking a boat amidships, threatening to swamp him. It put a dampener on his anger, reducing it to ashes. “Thursday’s involved in this?” he asked, a little faintly. 

“It was him who brought me into it. We should talk to him – now. Before the Hollow hurts anyone else.”

“Can’t you just cut it down?” asked Jakes. 

“Not without Thursday,” repeated Morse. “He lives in Kennington.”

Jakes slipped the car into gear, turning its nose south. “Tell me more.”

  
***

Morse spoke fluently, looking out the window sometimes, sometimes turning to face Jakes. He held his shoulder as he spoke, occasionally hunching inwards when they hit an uneven patch of road.

“Since I can remember I’ve been like you – able to see the dead. When I was young I didn’t realise that it was unusual; I learned the hard way what happened to a boy who talked to people no one else could see. I never met anyone who understood me – until DI Thursday.” Morse stopped for a moment, rubbing the curve of his neck with his thumb thoughtfully.

“He caught me out speaking to a dead man – and didn’t immediately send me to the Radcliffe Infirmary to get my head checked. It was Thursday who told me what I’m about to tell you.” He paused, head leaning back on the Jag’s red leather backrest and eyes focused on the roof. “We’re in one of two worlds, each connected to the other in ways no one can see. When we die here, we pass over to the other world – and when the people there die, they’re reborn here. It’s like a seesaw, we go up and down while the whole time maintaining balance.”

“And you believe that?” asked Jakes.

Morse paused. “I trust the evidence of my senses; the result is that I believe there are spirits, and Hollows,” he said slowly. “Another world where we’re reborn? That’s more difficult. Thursday says he’s met people who are from there; I never have. But I’ve learned to believe in things I never thought I could when I was younger. I suppose I’m agnostic.” He took a deep breath, then continued. “Thursday told me he was like me – able to see the dead from childhood. When he was serving in North Africa he met someone from the other world: a reaper. She was dressed in black and carried a sword. She told Thursday that the war had thrown off the balance between worlds, and that the reapers couldn’t keep up with the tide of souls that needed to pass over. The reapers were finding men like him to act as substitutes. Giving them a portion of their power and tasking them with the job of sending souls to the other world.”

“That sounds like a load of bullshit,” said Jakes.

“You saw the sword; you saw the girl pass over,” replied Morse. “Proof enough?”

Jakes snorted. 

“Thursday was too old to continue with his work, so he passed it on to me,” continued Morse, glancing out the window as they ran over the bridge, the river dark in its bed below them.

It explained, if nothing else, the unusual tie between the DI and the DC. Thursday had taken Morse on not only as his subordinate at the station, but in this bizarre second duty of theirs. 

“And now you run about town fighting ghosts,” he said drily. 

“Hardly that. This is only the second Hollow I’ve seen. But I know the signs. Those bruises on Mrs Bouchard were caused by it.”

Jakes remembers Morse’s quick glance at Thursday upon seeing the corpse’s bruised limbs, and the impassivity of the DI as he stared back. The two of them had known, even then. 

“So what, some unhappy soul transformed into a monster and decided to gobble up a helpless widow?”

“Almost certainly her husband is the Hollow,” replied Morse. “The timeline fits. It can take months or years for a lost soul to become a Hollow.”

“He hurried right along, then.” 

At this point the conversation was halted by the need for Morse to give directions to Thursday’s house. They glided through the quiet streets of Kennington, turning off the Avenue and into the back residential lanes. Thursday’s house was one of a low set, all nestled together on the west side of the street with their backs towards the noise of the A34. “It’s called Little London,” said Morse of the neighbourhood; apt, Jakes thought, considering the DI’s origins. 

They pulled up at the kerb in front of Thursday’s home, Morse pointing it out with his elbow. Jakes killed the engine and the lights, and for a moment they sat in silence. The sky was darkening above, the long summer day finally fading to dusk. 

“Out you get, then,” prompted Jakes when Morse showed no sign of moving, and opened his own door. Morse fumbled with the handle and unfolded his lanky form, shutting his door just as Jakes rounded the front of the Jaguar. He came out looking rumpled as a load of laundry; he pressed his hand against his hip in an effort to wipe off the blood. “You’re a sight,” said Jakes, and preceded the DC up the stone walkway to Thursday’s house.

Light was shining through the curtains in the front window; through the glass, Jakes could hear a radio or telly playing. He knocked on the doorbell and heard Morse scuffle up to stop behind him.

The door was opened by a woman of 55 or so in a floral print blouse and apron. Her curling, dark hair was held back to reveal a lined face which might once have been attractive in the unobtrusive way of librarians and stationery shop girls. She gave him an inquisitive look which warmed to a smile when she spotted Morse standing behind him. 

“DS Jakes, ma’am,” said Jakes. “We’re here to speak with Inspector Thursday.”

“At this time of the evening?” She didn’t seem upset by it; if anything her tone held playful resignation. 

“Afraid so,” replied Jakes. 

“I’ll fetch him.” She turned into the corridor, calling for her husband. “Come in, come in; I’ll put the kettle on,” she added over her shoulder as she passed down the hall and into the kitchen at the end. 

Jakes and Morse clustered awkwardly into the front hall. It was a small, tidy home with pleasantly wallpapered walls and several partially shut doors; there was a smell of rich pipe smoke and beef stew. The sound of broadcasting came from behind several, but a moment later the door at the far end of the hall opened to reveal DI Thursday wearing his suit trousers and a grey pull-over. He gave Jakes a quick look which shifted to Morse; his eyes darkened when he caught sight of the DC’s shoulder. 

“You’d better come on through.” 

They did as they were told. The room at the end of the hall to the left of a narrow galley-style kitchen was a den. It was still warm from the setting sun that until recently had flooded in through the west-facing windows. A telly sat in front of them, its rabbit-ears pointed crookedly at the ceiling; a sofa and a thickly-upholstered arm chair, a coffee table and a set of shelves rounded out the furniture. 

“Pull the door to, Sergeant,” instructed Thursday. “Morse, you sit there and show me that shoulder.” He pointed to a place on the edge of the sofa

“It’s not deep,” protested Morse, but at a look from Thursday he sat and began shrugging out of his suit jacket and shirt. Jakes pulled the door shut on silent hinges and perched on the armchair. 

“Now perhaps you’d like to tell me what this is about,” said Thursday, standing in the centre of the room watchfully.

“Sergeant Jakes knows,” said Morse, as he folded his jacket to keep the bloody shoulder from staining the sofa’s upholstery. “About Hollows. About me.”

Thursday looked at him; the hardness of his gaze made Jakes straighten. “He does, does he? And what do you have to say, Sergeant?”

“I’ve been seeing ghosts since I was a boy. Never knew there were others like me. Never knew about Hollows,” said Jakes, stiffly. Being found out by Morse was bad enough; having his secret shared with Thursday felt a complete invasion of his privacy. 

“You were lucky, then,” replied Thursday. “As Morse will have explained to you?”

“He said those beasts – Hollows – prey on people like me… people like us. That it killed Mrs Bouchard, and would have done the same for us if we hadn’t scarpered. As it was, it got its claws into Morse.”

“So I see. And you - thought you’d do a bit of after-hours investigating without consulting me, did you?” he said to Morse. 

“It mightn’t have still been there,” returned Morse. 

“But it was. And it could easily have killed you.”

“Why would it have been elsewhere?” asked Jakes. “If it was her husband, as Morse says. Surely it would stay where it was at home.”

“Hollows are tied to places or people. The fact that it killed Mrs Bouchard indicates the latter. The house likely has no significance to it now.”

“It killed her even though she was devoted to him?”

“Hollows don’t feel human emotion. Their situation was relatively common; you often hear of it. A married couple dies a few months apart; everyone says they couldn’t live without each other. In reality, it’s a darker story.”

By now Morse was sitting in just his vest, long claw-marks cutting bloody rents in his pale, freckled skin. Thursday sighed. “You _have_ made a mess of things.” He stepped over and put his hands over Morse’s shoulder. Slowly, like a lantern’s wick being turned up, a delicate green glow appeared beneath his palms. As Jakes watched, the cuts begin to knit closed. 

“Blimey,” said Jakes, staring. 

“Comes in handy from time to time,” said Thursday, without looking away. “But I can’t fix anything bigger than minor scrapes, so mind you don’t go getting yourselves into more trouble.”

At this point Mrs Thursday bustled in with tea and biscuits. She seemed completely unconcerned to see her husband closing the wounds in Morse’s shoulder by what appeared to be magic. She put her tray down on the coffee table and began to pour out cups. 

“We won’t be here long, pet,” said Thursday, giving her a soft look.

“You can stop off long enough for tea, surely, Fred,” she replied staunchly. And then, looking at the bloody pile of Morse’s clothes, “Oh dear, love. And that was your good suit, wasn’t it?”

“Teach him to throw himself into danger recklessly,” put in Thursday heartlessly, finishing up with Morse’s shoulder and straightening. 

“I’ll fetch a cloth and something for you to wear,” said Mrs Thursday, looking at the drying blood remaining on Morse’s exposed skin. She hurried out on that errand.

“Well?” inquired Thursday, imperiously, gesturing at the tea set. “Drink up. Then we’ll be going.”

“Going where, sir?” asked Jakes. Thursday gave him an unimpressed glance. 

“To see about this Hollow, Sergeant.”


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs Thursday returned shortly with a damp flannel and a mustard-coloured turtleneck for Morse. “It’s Sam’s. He won’t miss it.”

Privately Jakes considered that indifference a sign of good taste; the colour was hideous, and didn’t do much for Morse’s red hair and pale skin. But after mopping off his shoulder and hands, the DC pulled it on all the same, rolling the neck down and tucking the hem into his trousers. It was a tight fit, emphasizing his toast-rack chest. 

She also handed something to Thursday; “I thought you might be needing this,” she said, and slipped out of the room.

It turned out to be a black leather glove, the back emblazoned with a stylized flame. Thursday, shockingly, pulled it on. Morse sighed quietly and stood, placing his cup carefully on his saucer. 

“Up you get as well,” said Thursday to Jakes, still perched on the sitting chair’s thickly-padded armrest. He got warily to his feet, putting down his own cup of tea on its saucer on the tray. “You’ll want to catch him,” added Thursday.

“Catch – who?”

A moment later the DI had swung his open palm right at Morse’s forehead. As Jakes stared, his hand passed _directly through_ Morse’s head, catching hold of and pushing a carbon-copy of Morse through his own body like some kind of bizarre optical illusion.

The original, mustard-shirted Morse collapsed to the ground while behind him stood frock-coated Morse, complete with sword. “ _Catch him_ ,” snapped Thursday; Jakes lunged forward and grabbed Morse – the unconscious, crumpling version of him. “You can put him on the sofa.”

Back protesting, Jakes hauled the DC up and dropped him onto the sofa, where he listed to the side like a ship at anchor. The second Morse – the conscious, black-garbed one, watched with dissatisfaction, his arms crossed. 

“What the hell just happened?” asked Jakes, looking between the two copies of Morse.

“Reapers are souls without human bodies. For us to take on their work, we leave our bodies behind,” answered Thursday. “Spiritual power is difficult to manifest otherwise.”

Jakes took a moment to study Morse – the standing, frowning one. He was dressed in black trousers and a frock coat, with a tight-fitting sable waistcoat buttoned underneath. He wore no tie, his stiff white collar open at the throat. From his side hung the sword, a long narrow sabre with a straight blade, its brass pommel shining gently. 

Even in the soft, ample light of Thursday’s den, he cast no shadow. 

This was the Morse he had seen at the arson site, the one who had laid the ghost there to rest. The one who wasn’t quite of this world.

“Well?” said Morse, and like that the ethereal spell was broken. Regardless of his shadow or his outlandish dress this was still Morse, still Jakes’ chippy subordinate.

“Let’s go, then,” said Jakes, and swept out.

  
***

They left Morse’s earthly body behind on the sofa for Mrs Thursday to mind and piled into the Jag. The ghostly Morse, no longer visible to the vast majority of citizens, was incapable of driving and instead sat in the back while Jakes took the wheel.

Thursday pulled a small, battered compass from his pocket; it looked like it was made of tin, and didn’t even have a layer of glass covering the needle. The red-painted portion of the needle was fluttering gently as it pointed North. Thursday nodded and slipped it back in his pocket.

“And what’s to stop Morse – or someone like him, plain invisible to most – committing murders and get away with it?” asked Jakes, glancing in the mirror and seeing Morse staring idly out the window. He blinked and turned to face forward at the question.

“Reapers – and me,” replied Thursday heavily. “They take their duties seriously, as do I. Those on one side of the grave shouldn’t be reaching out to the other. Seeing to it that they don’t is my job – and now Morse’s. If Morse hadn’t jumped the gun by going over to Mrs Bouchard’s on his own, I would have sent him – properly equipped, of course.”

“I thought it was anchored to Mrs Bouchard,” said Morse, pulling a hand through his messy ginger hair. “I wasn’t expecting it to be there.”

Thursday half-turned to answer him. “Coppering – and reaping – is about expecting the unexpected. You can’t afford to be caught off guard.” 

Morse looked out the window, his lips drawn in a tight, narrow line. 

“It’s a hard line to walk, looking after others as well as yourself. Especially when Hollows are involved. But remember: if something happens to you, there’ll be no one to take care of them,” said Thursday gravelly.

Morse turned back around, eyes flashing. He opened his mouth, then shut it again without speaking. 

“You just think on it,” finished Thursday more softly, as they crossed Folly bridge into Oxford proper.

  
***

“What’s going to happen when we get to the house?” asked Jakes. “Morse is going to waltz in there and do his exorcism routine, is that it?”

“Morse and I will go in together. This is only his second Hollow – can’t leave things to chance.”

“I’m not going to hang about in the car while you risk your life, sir,” replied Jakes, stung.

“Not much you can do, sergeant.”

“I’ll come all the same.”

“Mind you stay well out of the way, then,” said Thursday as they pulled into the Bouchards’ street. Jakes parked the car and killed the engine. For a moment the three of them sat, looking out at the empty house. 

Thursday made the first move, Morse following. Jakes brought up the rear, wondering slightly whether bravado and the chance to impress his superior was worth facing the monster again. 

But after all, Morse was the one with the sword. The Hollow was Goliath and Morse was to play the part of David, not Jakes. 

The DC led the way, stepping cautiously up the path to the front door and pushing it open – it was still ajar from their earlier escape. It was lucky, thought Jakes, that no good Samaritan had noticed and ventured up to close it. Morse used his left hand to nudge the door open, his right hovering just above the grip of his sword. 

Inside, all was dark. Morse flipped on the light and stood still in the doorway, a dark silhouette against a buttery glow. “I don’t see anything,” he said, still looking into the house.

Thursday produced the compass from his pocket again; the needle was pointing directly at the house. It wasn’t fluctuating anymore. “It’s here,” he said grimly. “Go slow.”

Morse drew his sword without any flourish; contrary to Jakes’ expectations it slid from its sheath in near silence, the polished metal gleaming. Gripping it with two hands, the DC ventured inside. Thursday followed him, and Jakes followed Thursday. 

Inside all was silence, each of the three men tip-toeing. Morse slowly circled through the bottom floor of the house while Thursday and Jakes waited in the foyer. He returned with nothing to show for it, and nodded towards the stairs. Thursday nodded back.

Morse took the stairs slowly; they were old wood, the steps uneven and steep. He advanced in silence until, halfway up, a step creaked under his foot. 

A roar issued from the second storey; Morse, to Jakes’ surprise, ran up the stairs towards it, rounding the corner at the top. 

“Morse!” snapped Thursday, but the DC had already disappeared into the darkness above. There was another roar, and then a pained snarl and the thumping of heavy feet on the wooden floorboards. Something made of glass smashed, and there was a heavy thud. 

Thursday was heading for the stairs when Morse’s lithe form suddenly appeared at the head of the staircase, his back to them. Jakes could see the glint of the sword raised in front of him.

All of a sudden an immense white limb came jabbing towards him; he struck out and drew blood and a roaring cry from the Hollow. And then it was whipping around even while Morse was catching his balance from his strike, and lashed out with another limb – a long, powerful tail. 

It caught Morse in the stomach and sent him flying backwards. He overshot the top of the stairs and fell, landing awkwardly on his side and doing a full revolution as he tumbled down the stairs. Thursday dodged hurriedly out of the way and he came rolling down the bottom like a bowling ball to crash into the hall table. 

He lay where he had fallen, still. His sword was halfway up the stairs. 

At the top, the hollow looked down. Its immense face loomed out of the darkness, its huge, square-tooth-filled mouth opening into a smile. “Some reaper,” it said, chortling. “Some reaper.” It took a step forward, one of its monstrous forearms gripping the second step down and the other holding onto the railing. The wood cracked beneath its grip.

Jakes took a step back. Suddenly coming along on this hunt seemed like a completely brainless thing to do, utterly barking. Hollows ate people like him, Morse had said. And now what was to stop it?

Thursday stepped forward, his left hand gripping the first two fingers of his right. “Eastern wind, western sun. Four rivers forded, ten hawks circling. Step widdershins until the crow calls, darkness kills the light. Demon arts 24: Black lightning.”

Lightning shot from his hands as though descending from the sky. It tore up the wall towards the Hollow, leaving a crooked line of burnt plaster behind, and impacting on the Hollow’s face with an explosion like a mortar. The creature stumbled backwards, roaring like an injured beast, and disappeared. The lights went out. Jakes fumbled hurriedly in his pocket and produced his lighter, flicking it open. From the other side of the house there was a crashing of broken glass, and then silence. 

In the quiet, there was only the sound of Thursday panting. Jakes looked to him and saw that his hair was in disarray, no longer slicked back but hanging grey and lank in his face. His skin was pale and covered by a sheen of sweat; his hands were trembling. He looked down at Morse. 

The DC was coming to, arms and legs beginning to scrabble against the floor. He gave a low sound of pain and drew his right arm in towards his chest. In the poor light Jakes could just barely see that it was bent at an unnatural angle, and he winced. 

“Fetch his sword down,” said Thursday, consulting his compass again. He bent down beside Morse and laid his hand on the DC’s shoulder. He said something in a low voice which Jakes didn’t catch.

The sword was heavier than he had imagined from seeing Morse wield it; it was an awkward weight as he picked it up in his left hand, his right still holding the lighter with its flickering flame.

“I wounded it,” said Morse, his voice very rough. He was crumpled on the floor beside the overturned table, legs drawn up to his chest and arm held tight across it. “Several times. But I didn’t know it had a tail.”

“It’s nothing but a hurt animal now, and hurt animals lash out. We have to put a stop to it,” said Thursday. 

“You’re mad, the both of you,” said Jakes, feeling suddenly like the only sane man in a ship of fools. “Morse’s arm’s broken, and whatever that… that _spell_ you did was, it hit you for six.”

He had envisioned this calling of theirs as something backed up by organization and resourcing, the same as the Force. What he realised now was it was two lone men – one over the hill and the other still green –operating with solely the strength of their arms. 

Thursday looked up at him. His dark eyes were steady despite the sweat trickling down from his hairline. “If we don’t stop it, it will kill again. Guaranteed.”

“And the two of you are going to stop it?” returned Jakes.

“You could,” said Morse suddenly. His face was very pale in the lighter’s tiny glow, his pupils blown out. “You have the same abilities as the Inspector, the same as me.”

“You want _me_ to fight that thing? I’ve never handled a sword in my life.”

“The sword is part of you. You’ll know what to do with it.”

Jakes hefted it. “It’s nothing but a dead weight,” he said, supremely unimpressed. 

“That’s because that one’s mine. We need to call yours.”

“Alright Morse, quiet down,” cut in Thursday. And then, to Jakes, “Morse isn’t wrong, sergeant. You can take on this burden. But that’s what it is – a burden. And a risk. The thing is hurt – that’s both good and bad. It will be an easier fight. But it will also be a more desperate one. It’s a bad situation, and I won’t pretend otherwise.”

“What’ll you do if I say no?” asked Jakes.

“Then I’ll go after it myself,” replied Thursday. “I’m not quite done for yet.”

Jakes looked at the Inspector, bent low beside his injured DC. His face was waxen, the skin of his hand wrinkled and mottled where it was supporting his weight against the wall. He might not have another spell in him, and even if he did would one be enough?

Hollows hunted people like him. In all the years of his life, he had never seen one. Was it because people like Thursday – and Morse – had been fighting them? Killing them, to protect him?

Were there others like him who would die tonight if he did nothing? Children like the child he had once been, looking out their windows at ghosts on the pavement?

Jakes looked down at the sword. “Alright,” he said, jaw stiff. “I’ll do it. How do we call this sword of mine?”

Morse held out his uninjured left hand for the sword, which Jakes slowly gave him. 

And then, before he could react, Morse stabbed him in the chest.


End file.
